Home
by Dantaron
Summary: Ten years after the events of The Lost Age, Sheba reflects on what home is, after coming home to find the one she loved absent. In this world of uncertainty, can anyone find a place to call their own and be safe and secure? Or is it an unattainable delusion? -slight spoilers for Dark Dawn-
1. Chapter 1

**Home**

_Chapter One_

Lalivero dust swirls into Sheba's mouth as she calls into the empty home. Her hand pushes past the hanging curtain of beads, its image of a fertile forest distending.

"Felix?"

There's no response, but that's not so strange. He might just be down at the market, or working up at the smithy. That's what she tells herself. But she knows the time of year, and it's around this time that -

Irritated, she shucks off that thought with her priestess' shawl. The dyed silk flutters to the ground like a spent shell; she stretches lithe arms, glossy with sweat. The crops seemed to wither overnight. And when that happens, she spends long hours of dancing in the traditional colours to appease the gods. And her people. When she moves with the winds - when the long strips of cloth trace her motions, showing for the people what they can only feel otherwise, she shoulders all their cares and their anxious wishes.

Unburdened of their names, she moves through her home in Laliveran gauze. She takes a candle from the mudroom and strikes flint against stone, kindling the wick. The house is empty save for the rustling of screen on the windows, and crickets outside creaking like old bones.

She doesn't pick up any deliciously embarrassing (or erotic!) thoughts floating around the house, so that settles it. No one's home. She makes her way to the kitchen and sets the candle on the table. She unhooks a pan from the wall and sets it on the brace, lighting the coals beneath with a small spark. She fetches some herbs and mixes them with salted meat from the icebox and potatoes from the pantry, sautéing them with a bit of olive oil. She doesn't even particularly like this dish, but it's his favourite. She only makes enough for herself. She hums snatches of a Laliveran folk tune between bites.

She knows she'll stumble across a letter from him. This time it's when she opens the cupboard and finds a fresh box of her favourite ginger snaps. The letter is half-rolled over the top layer, crumbs on its edges.

Sheba's eyes scan the page, lips shaping the words. She tosses it on the table when she's done.

She moves still humming and extracts a slim volume from the shelf. Goes upstairs and out onto the veranda, where the crisp breeze coming from the ocean carries salt and reminds her of travelling.

She thinks about following him. She knows where he's gone. It's not as if he hides it. Thinks of sending a pmigeon to Piers, nagging him for his age, asking for passage. He's doing research for Kraden, noting what Alchemy's changed. "Investigating strange phenomenon." She almost sees him now: the high-collared tunic, the hat pulled down low, smoking dramatically on the bow of his ship... She wants to go: she misses the creak of timber, the sway of the sea.

The book closed under her hands, it seems she's always been a prisoner of some sort. The Jovian steps to the balcony and curls her hand around the baked stone rail, still warm from day. The house next door is softly lit, and she discerns the colourful sheets hung out overnight on the line. Laughter wafts out with the smell of stir-fry, the no-longer young voice of her brother. He's seventeen this year, taller than her now. Sometimes, lying awake under the drift of the palms, late at night she hears his low tone and girlish giggles, and feels old.

Faran doesn't want her to leave. For ten years he's insisted that she stay. That Lalivero needed its goddess. With townspeople developing powers of their own, many needed her for help and advice. She retorts that just as many turn away, scoffing at a so-called divinity others can learn and use. She likes it that way. She doesn't want to be an idol... all the time. She loves her homeland with all her heart - missed it when in Tolbi. Missed it just as much when she was travelling. But ten years...

Kraden'd said that Faran was her only family that counts. She sees her adopted father turn older each day, hears his bones groan. His voice as strong as ever. When the whites began to show in his hair, he'd laugh all the more and ruffle hers, the years not touching her. She looks in her late teens, she knows. She's heard it so many times it's burnt in her brain:

_What else could we expect from the holy child of Lalivero?_

She heard it in a different tone from Kraden when he visited, after she straight asked him how she'd do in childbirth.

_He looked at her a long time over his half-moon lenses, thoughtful. "Wait, my dear. You've not developed enough physically, not robust enough, for it to be free of complications." Then that sarcastic glint in his eye. He knows how much she hates it. "What else could we expect-"_

_ "And reading books will make your eyesight even worse, so you better stop that at once!" she points imperiously, before they break up into laughter._

She longs to be nobody again. Sometimes the mask is a part of her skin.

Her fingers are cool on her cheek as she leans on her palm and stares up into the night sky, resplendent with stars. The moon is low and full on the horizon, like a ripe pearl. "I'll leave," she says into the cool night, the spices. The garden quavers in starlight and the freshening breeze. There's something sure within her, like a deep stone. She's often called it "destiny." She remembers what Felix said to her when their groups marched peacefully side-by-side through the Suhalla, soldiers and Proxians sharing a path. Before she knew his story, how he'd been torn from one family and thrown into another.

_"When home stops feeling like home," the mysterious boy says, "you leave." She thinks boy because though the other leaders all look calculating, there's something trusting in his earthy eyes. She keeps close to him, makes small talk. If something happens, she thinks he'll be her way out._

She'll talk to Faran tomorrow. She doesn't have to look after her brother anymore, and there are other priestesses in Lalivero. She'll say it's a pilgrimage. She'll try not to look into his eyes. She can't take that.

"A pilgrimage." Sheba tucks the words inward, holds them close. Maybe she'll see Felix out there. Haha, it'll teach him a nice lesson when he comes back, and she's not there. She can almost see the expression on his face.

And suddenly, she _can_ see his face: crystal clear and painted in horror.

And then the full force of the premonition sweeps over her, and Sheba is ripped out of her body and hurled hundreds of metres into the air and ages through time, with a tornado in her soul.

Afterwards, Faran will attest that a single word splintered the night sky and sent the Laliverans rushing one and all from their homes, for the desperate and unbidden cry was as much in their minds as in their ears.

_"Anemos!"_


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

The northern wilds. It comes rushing back. The snow seems to fall for eternity, yet never grows any deeper. Just the slow erasure of footprints.

Felix picks his way, his legs high as a deer's before crunching into snow. Space seems to fade here. Step all day and it's hard to tell you've moved at all.

Ten years ago today they lit Mars Lighthouse. Ten years ago today the Golden Sun formed. Ten years ago today Karst died.

He'd stayed back in that cold room with the ice like ivy creeping up the walls. Sheba came back and shook him, her hands warm but somehow distant over his. She reached out with her mind.

_Felix, I know what you're feeling. But we can't waste time! They wanted to see the beacon's light, the least we can do is grant their last wish._

... _Agatio's last wish._

_Hey, who's the mindreader here!? She wants it too! She may've tried to kill us, but... I can only think what I'd do if Lalivero was in danger._

S_he'd hate you forever for moping like this, Felix. Wasn't she always telling you to _focus?

Felix snaps back. He'd been moving in a slow, falling circle. The wind howled in his ears. The storms were only stronger since Alchemy returned. Warmer, but stronger storms.

And still. Signs of life. He feels with Psynergy a bush just buried under a thin layer of snow. Digs down with gloved hands until he feels the delicate branches. Casts Growth, and it bursts from snow in a green dawn. Berries ripen and drop into his hands. He eats to regain his strength. The suddenly-fresh juice seeps into his rough beard and crystallizes.

He can't say what impels him to do this. Once a year, to leave everything behind, to cut all ties. To wander like a newborn: like he was after the storm. Facing another life.

_Your hands... so warm... people have such warm hands... I had forgotten_.

The last gasp of winter. Felix forges on. He must see the rift. See with his own eyes that it's closing. That it wasn't in vain.

But the snow stretches on forever.

And then suddenly it doesn't.

A single blaze of red against the tundra. Motion. Something moving in the wind.

He's wrapped in so many layers of clothing. Puelle was glad to see him. Martyl was so old now. He hoped she'd see the flowers one last time. She always thought of him as a grandson. She gave him her blessing, said he was a fine man. Menardi and Karst's grandmother.

She forgave him, of course.

Felix makes for the only thing not white here like a drowning man for driftwood.

_I heard that Karst and Agatio were defeated by a monstrous dragon... Felix beat the dragon, though..._

They'd been right, in a sense. The Wise One doomed Karst and Agatio as sure as his parents would have been. Removed, calculating, emotionless, _that_ being saw no reason to allow the Proxians to remain alive.

Monstrous dragon. With teeth like swords.

The blaze seems no closer.

And it is under his hands.

One of Karst's scarves. Still vibrant red after ten years. The ice'd caught it in one end, and the other whipped in the wind. He takes off a glove and, as if afraid, reaches through petrifying cold to touch the cloth.

It feels exactly as he remembers.

With the snow spiralling around his head and the cold closing in, Felix is gone.

_I won't be long. Just... let me say goodbye._ He looks at Sheba, her wide green eyes, and touches her cheek.

She turns her head away a few degrees, looks over his shoulder. For a few moments she says nothing. _Talk to me after. I'll be there for you._

_I know._

She stands with the grace of the wind, and walks straight-backed out of the room. Her spirit strikes him as incongruous with her small frame, and not for the first time. He told her this once, and almost smiles at the memory, her whip-smarting response.

Almost.

He crouches beside Karst. Agatio's eyes are closed nearby, but his chest rises and falls in a staggered, laboured rhythm. He's unconscious. Karst's just as bad, but her eyes are open - too wide, and numb with pain she looks right through him.

"Karst." No response. "Karst. Focus."

At that she does respond, with the bending of her lips that he's come to recognize as her ironic smile. He's seen it much more often after Menardi died: bitter amusement. "Never thought... I'd hear _you_ say that to _me_."

"I never thought it would come to this."

"Oh, don't be a child," she snaps. A thin trail of blood winds its way over her cheek. She bats away his hand as he moves to wipe it. "We were both ready for this to happen."

"You and Agatio, ready to die for Prox." His voice is flat as the Northern Wastes.

"No, you fool. You and I. You knew... this could happen since Jupiter Lighthouse. I've been... waiting for it." Her breath fails her when she reaches for words. Felix desperately casts all the Cure he can, but she's slipping off a precipice. Far away and falling still.

"Why?" And a bit of hurt slips into his voice. He's so struck by her words he misses the tenderness beneath.

"So it wouldn't be you. So we could stop fighting." He sees her heroically repress a coughing fit, the strain in her lips. Still unwilling to show weakness. He deftly wipes the blood from her face while she's distracted... and then peels off his glove and lays his hand on her cheek.

She sighs a long sigh. The kind that comes from the bottom of the lungs and soul.

There's so much he wants to say.

"Hey. If you cry, I'll... kick your ass." She smiles weakly. "You were always soft. I thought... that meant weak. Yet you won... twice. I should have... let you walk the path you wanted. You were so slow... helping everyone... while Prox dies. Menardi dead... and you saved every kitten... on your way."

"Karst. Stop, please. Don't waste your breath. Stop talking." He takes up her cold arm and she lets him remove her glove. Watches him curiously. He checks her pulse at the wrist, then the neck. Her heart is strong still... but far too slow.

"When... will I... if not now?" Her red eyes are sharp and lucid now. Like a sunset. She cracks each word from herself like a sculptor flaking stone. "My honour... demands that I... right this. Felix... I never said this... but I am glad for the three years you were with me in Prox. You've... made us all proud. You... make _me_ proud." She hisses suddenly under her breath, and arcs her back. Her eyes close involuntary. His healing psynergy is almost tapped. "Your way is right. I can accept... that." There's a stillness as she hefts a new block of self. "You."

Karst coughs, and blood speckles her lips. Felix's hand clears it, and he feels her lips move under his fingertips. Sudden warmth - is she blushing? "You don't have enough blood left to afford blushing," he scolds.

She breaks into laughter. "Ahahah-oh ouch! Ouch! Mars..." quick prayer. "Shut the fuck up, Felix," she says, but she really is smiling now - and it's gone as quickly as it came. "That... that girl. Sheba... she's close to you... isn't she?" Karst's eyes are enigmatic.

Felix hesitates. She smirks. "That's all... I needed to know. Be soft... with her. Or I'll... hunt you down and... cut off your balls."

"You better be around to do so," he says, barely above a whisper. "But yes. She is... very dear to me. Thanks... Karst. Karst listen, I..."

"Ssssssssh." She draws it out too long. Her eyes flick over his shoulder, and he realizes her lucidity is fading. "Let _me_ say it. Felix... you were the first... I ever loved. Sometimes I thought... you'd never learn... how to be Proxian. But I never saw... that you were... teaching me. Thanks. Mars keep you. Felix, do me one last... favour."

"Anything." And means it.

"Kiss me. Agatio's unconscious... otherwise he'd punch... your lights out. Kiss me."

With solemn dignity and trembling hands, Felix winds his fingers through Karst's. Behind her chill back, his other hand supports her as she leans up. Her scales are rough under his fingers, her skin just a little tougher than human. Her eyes are on his the whole while - red sun and night - their lips meet.

They feel each other's breathing. The precise taste and heat. The cold after-battle sweat. Karst's blood. Felix puts everything he cannot say through his lips.

They part with the air they shared dissipating into the cold reaches of the Lighthouse.

He sees too late the mischief in her eyes to stop her open hand striking his cheek.

"Idiot. I thought you said... you were close to that girl... don't kiss another..."

She laughs softly at his pained expression, and then winces. "Oh, Felix... I will miss you. Go light... the beacon. Take care... of..." but Felix's hand is over her lips. He nods once. Bends to kiss her forehead.

"Good-

-bye, Karst." Felix says softly, holding the scarf in his hands. The snow slows. Felix brushes the cold crust from his brows, looks again at the white expanse. With calm movements, he takes the scarf and winds it around his chest, under his cloak, as a tourniquet. The red is striking against the blackgreen of his travel clothes.

It's enough, he realizes, it's enough now. There's so much stillness. Her last word... what would it have been?

Perhaps he was wrong to leave so suddenly. Perhaps, on these trips of grievance, that Sheba would like to come. He catches her sometimes, staring up into the sky for hours on end. The sky, where the wind comes from. The sky, where she fell from. The sky that hides the family she never knew.

Smoothing the final touches on the knot where it rests over his heart, Felix thinks that perhaps he'd like to see Sheba again. That he'd like that very much. He'll check the Rift first. Then return.

By the time he does, it's too late.

From an Angaran mountainside, Sheba watches from a distance the gleaming ship on air, moonlight anointing its metal. It glistens as it draws wide circles over the country... and she, Sheba, has seen nothing like this ever before. But there is something in it that causes a tightening in her chest. She reaches inward and touches it.

It's homesickness.

But then, Sheba has no time to think, no time to look inward, as lightning crackles and meets far over Angara in a violet writhing ball. With an immense sucking sound, the sky seems to fold on itself and swirl, as if a god's hand is twisting it. A vortex spins to life, and its depths have no end.

Grass beneath browns as if in a fire, turns to ash. Streams dry up. She sees a circle of travellers, their campfire winking out, and then their own bodies extinguishing: eyes sink, flesh desiccates, bones crumble and leave only clothes behind. She sees great and vivid detail in her mind's eye. There are no screams. Even the air is stolen.

The first Mourning Moon yawns as if awakened from a long sleep. The very sky aches as the airship wheels and turns suddenly, straining by Jove-knows-what force to avoid being drawn in.

She feels a strange kinship with the unknown ship. _Do you always travel? Are you without a home? Is there no place you rest? _She knows she might be projecting and doesn't care. _Go_, she mutters mentally. _Go. Go._

The ship is held in perfect balance - it occupies the same space, unable to move forward, but never drawn back. Time itself slows, its threads unravelling. Stretched.

The hollow of the sky is a hollow inside her, too.


End file.
